


you’ll dance with me in my dreams

by carryyourownbanner



Series: sprace one-shots [2]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, M/M, this is short and I wrote it at 3am but... I think it’s kinda cute?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 15:54:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19444681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryyourownbanner/pseuds/carryyourownbanner
Summary: short. sweet. hopefully as soft as i think it is,,they just wanna dance with everyone else, okay?





	you’ll dance with me in my dreams

It looks like love inside.

Love song after love song, the words are just a blur, now, to the two boys outside, holding hands under the veil of night. 

The blinking neon threatens to expose them, but Spot can’t bring himself to let go. No, Race’s hand is safe. It’s warm.

Skirts swirl and polished shoes hit the floor inside of the swing joint. Young men and women, schoolboys and girls- all types, free to just be in the public eye, as long as they’ve got a girl or guy on their arm- respectively.

Himself and Race stand outside, watching wistfully through the window. No one pays them any mind- no, they’re distracted with their loves, and with the music.

“Wanna go inside?” Race asks.

“I’d rather not.”

The walk home is thick with detested distance as the streetlights grow brighter, Race’s hands stuck to his pockets even as Spot longs to hold them. To hold him, really.

So when they get to Spot’s they sneak in through the window by climbing Mrs. Conlon’s lattice garden, careful not to disturb the flowers.

“Dance with me,” Race whispers once they’ve clambered in. He flicks on a lamp.

“With what music?”

“We don’t need any.”

Spot gives in, and he puts his arms around Race’s neck with exaggerated caution- anxiety bubbles in his chest at the thought of either of his parents or his brother opening the door. 

Race’s hands are settled easily around his waist, and he feels him kiss his forehead. It helps, a little.

They don’t move much. Just in little circles around the room, Spot trying desperately not to step on his more elegant partner’s feet as they avoid the well-known creaky spots by the walls. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, leaning his head against his chest. It’s not the first time he’s said it, but his voice has never broken quite like that when he did.

Race kisses him, and when he opens his eyes, Spot marvels at how lovely those baby blues look in the light of the cheap lamp on his bedside table.

He helps him out the window when it gets too late all too early.

The silence is more deafening once he’s gone. When Spot lies down and stares blankly at the ceiling, he knows he’ll be with him in his dreams.

He can’t wait.


End file.
